The Lost Child -- Mulk Raj Anand (II Sem B. Com. Basic English)

The Lost Child -- Mulk Raj Anand

It was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs, brimming over with life and laughter. “Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.

He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. “I want that toy,” he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way. His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before you!”

It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings, intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly in search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest, and he would try to catch it. But it would go fluttering, flapping, up into the air, when he had almost caught it in his hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child, come, come on to the footpath.”

He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.

“Come, child, come!” his parents called from the shade of a grove where they had seated themselves on the edge of a well. He ran towards them. A shower of young flowers fell upon the child as he entered the grove, and, forgetting his parents, he began to gather the raining petals in his hands. But lo! He heard the cooing of doves and ran towards his parents, shouting, “The dove! The dove!” The raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands.

“Come, child, come!” they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many other footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the world he was entering.

A sweetmeat seller hawked, “gulab-jaman, rasagulla, burfi, jalebi,” at the corner of the entrance and a crowd pressed round his counter at the foot of an architecture of many coloured sweets, decorated with leaves of silver and gold. The child stared open-eyed and his mouth watered for the burfi that was his favourite sweet. “I want that burfi,” he slowly murmured. But he half knew as he begged that his plea would not be heeded because his parents would say he was greedy. So without waiting for an answer he moved on.

A flower-seller hawked, “A garland of gulmohur, a garland of gulmohur !” The child seemed irresistibly drawn. He went towards the basket where the flowers lay heaped and half murmured, “I want that garland.” But he well knew his parents would refuse to buy him those flowers because they would say that they were cheap. So, without waiting for an answer, he moved on.

A man stood holding a pole with yellow, red, green and purple balloons flying from it. The child was simply carried away by the rainbow glory of their silken colours and he was filled with an overwhelming desire to possess them all. But he well knew his parents would never buy him the balloons because they would say he was too old to play with such toys. So he walked on farther.

A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer played, he proceeded farther.

There was a roundabout in full swing. Men, women and children, carried away in a whirling motion, shrieked and cried with dizzy laughter. The child watched them intently and then he made a bold request: “I want to go on the roundabout, please, Father, Mother.” There was no reply. He turned to look at his parents. They were not there, ahead of him. He turned to look on either side. They were not there. He looked behind. There was no sign of them.

A full, deep cry rose within his dry throat and with a sudden jerk of his body he ran from where he stood, crying in real fear, “Mother, Father.” Tears rolled down from his eyes, hot and fierce; his flushed face was convulsed with fear. Panic- stricken, he ran to one side first, then to the other, hither and thither in all directions, knowing not where to go. “Mother, Father,” he wailed. His yellow turban came untied and his clothes became muddy.

Having run to and fro in a rage of running for a while, he stood defeated, his cries suppressed into sobs. At little distances on the green grass he could see, through his filmy eyes, men and women talking. He tried to look intently among the patches of bright yellow clothes, but there was no sign of his father and mother among these people, who seemed to laugh and talk just for the sake of laughing and talking.

He ran quickly again, this time to a shrine to which people seemed to be crowding. Every little inch of space here was congested with men, but he ran through people’s legs, his little sob lingering: “Mother, Father!” Near the entrance to the temple, however, the crowd became very thick: men jostled each other, heavy men, with flashing, murderous eyes and hefty shoulders. The poor child struggled to thrust a way

between their feet but, knocked to and fro by their brutal movements, he might have been trampled underfoot, had he not shrieked at the highest pitch of his voice, “Father, Mother!”

A man in the surging crowd heard his cry and, stooping with great difficulty, lifted him up in his arms. “How did you get here, child? Whose baby are you?” the man asked as he steered clear of the mass. The child wept more bitterly than ever now and only cried, “I want my mother, I want my father!”

The man tried to soothe him by taking him to the roundabout. “Will you have a ride on the horse?” he gently asked as he approached the ring. The child’s throat tore into a thousand shrill sobs and he only shouted: “I want my mother, I want my father!”

The man headed towards the place where the snake- charmer still played on the flute to the swaying cobra. “Listen to that nice music, child!” he pleaded. But the child shut his ears with his fingers and shouted his double-pitched strain: “I want my mother, I want my father!” The man took him near the balloons, thinking the bright colours of the balloons would distract the child’s attention and quieten him. “Would you like a rainbow-coloured balloon?” he persuasively asked. The child turned his eyes from the flying balloons and just sobbed, “I want my mother, I want my father!”

The man, still trying to make the child happy, bore him to the gate where the flower-seller sat. “Look! Can you smell those nice flowers, child! Would you like a garland to put round your neck?” The child turned his nose away from the basket and reiterated his sob: “I want my mother, I want my father!”

Thinking to humour his disconsolate charge by a gift of sweets, the man took him to the counter of the sweet shop. “What sweets would you like, child?” he asked. The child turned his face from the sweet shop and only sobbed, “I want my mother, I want my father!” 

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edited. Mastanappa

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER – OLIVER GOLDSMITH (II Sem B. Com. Basic English)

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER – OLIVER GOLDSMITH

Oliver Goldsmith, poet, dramatist and essayist, was born on 10 November 1728 at Pallasmore in Ireland. At eight, he had a severe attack of smallpox which disfigured him for life. In Spite of repeated interruptions in his studies, he managed to take his B. A. degree in 1746. After several avocations he took to writing as his means of livelihood, but with little success. He died on 4 April 1774.

Among his works The Traveller (Poem), The Deserted Village (poem), She Stoops to Conquer (play), and The Vicar of Wakefield (novel) are accepted classics.

‘The Village Schoolmaster’ is taken from his most famous poem The Deserted Village. It is one of the most endearing pen-portraits in the whole of English Literature.  The original of the Schoolmaster is supposed to be Thomas Byrne a retired soldier who opened a school at Lissoy. Goldsmith was at Byrne’s schools for two years.

Oliver Goldsmith, poet, dramatist and essayist, was born on 10 November 1728 at Pallasmore in Ireland. At eight, he had a severe attack of smallpox, which disfigured him for life. In spite of repeated interruption in his studies, he managed to take his B.A. degree in 1746. After several avocations he took to writing as his means of livelihood, but with little success. He died on 4 April 1774.

Poem:

Besides yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion, skill’d to rule,

The village master taught his little school;

A man severe he was, and stern to view;

I knew him well, and very truant knew;

Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace

The day’s disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d;

Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declar’d how much he knew;

‘Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And e’en the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing too, the parson own’d his skill,

For e’en though vanquish’d, he could argue still:

While words of learned length and thund’ring sound

Amazed the gazing rustics rang’d around,

And still they gaz’d, and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

Summary:

‘The Village Schoolmaster’ is taken from his most famous poem The Deserted Village. It is one of the most endearing pen-portraits in the whole of English literature. The original of the Schoolmaster is supposed to be Thomas Byrne a retired soldier who opened a school at Lissoy. Goldsmith was at Byrne’s school for two years.

The original of the Schoolmaster is supposed to be Thomas Byrne who taught Goldsmith for two years. The schoolmaster was a serious looking man; but he was really very kind at heart. His severity arose from his love of learning. When he came to school in the morning, by looking at his face, the children were able to guess at their experiences of the day.

The schoolmaster had a few stale jokes. Whenever he cracked a joke the children pretended to enjoy it and laughed liberally. This they did only to please him. When he frowned they knew that trouble was coming and the sad news was communicated among themselves through whisper.

The extent of his learning was known to one and all in the village. He could work out simple arithmetical problems and calculate the area of a piece of land. He could also make the necessary calculations and say when the seasons would start or when movable feasts like Easter would occur.

His skill in arguing was admitted by no less a person than the parson of the village. When he was defeated in an argument he would start using high sounding words, to the merriment of all the rustics who were seated around. As a matter of the fact the rustics wondered how a small head could contain all he knew.

Thus the pen-portrait of the village schoolmaster is humorous and at the same time endearing.

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Don't call me Indo-Anglian -- Syed Amanuddin (Text for II Sem B.Com Basic English)

Syed Amanuddin (b. 1934): Don't call me Indo-Anglian

                                   

no i don't want to be

a hotchpotch of culture

a confusion of language

a nullity of imagination

   an abortive affair between an indo and an anglo

i hate hyphens

   the artificial bridges

   between artificial values

   in the name of race religion n language

i damn all hyphenated minds

   prejudiced offsprings of unenlightened souls

i denounce all labels and labelmakers

i refuse to be a moonrock specimen

  to be analyzed labelled n stored

  for a curious gloomy fellow to

    reanalyze reclassify me

    for shelving me again

they call me indo-anglian

  I don't now what they mean

  cauvery flows in my veins

  chamundi hills rise in my mind with stars afloat

  eyes of the goddess smiling on the slain demon

  brindavan fountains sing in my soul

but i am not tied down to my childhood scene.

  i have led languages by their ears

  i have twisted creeds to force the truth out

  i have burned candles in the caves of prejudice

  i have surged in the oceans of being

  i have flown across the universe on the wings of my thought

they call me indo-anglian

  the mistaken misinformed folk

  n class me with a small group of writers

    cloistering me

    crippling me

i would rather roam with kalidasa n kabir

or go on a spiritual journey with dante

meditate with khayyam on the mathematics of existence

or sing with ghalib the anguish of love

or drown with li po kissing the moon's reflection in the river

they call me indo-anglian

  it's true i write in english

  dream in the language of shakespeare n keats

  but I am not an anglo my friend

  i am a POET

  i have lived forty centuries under various names

  i am now amanuddin

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don’t call me indo-anglian – syed amanuddin (Summary)

Syed Amanuddin was born and brought up in Mysore, South India, and later he migrated to America. This is the reason that his poetry unifies the Indian clarity and American modernity. Syed Amanuddin is a poet with a blend of Indian essence and American flavor in his writings. His works capture the essence of the human experience like joy, happiness, love, pain, suffering and death. He has a very distinguished style of writing, which resembles to E. E. Cummings style of writing. Both of them introduced the Avant-grade style in writing poetry, which experiments the conventional rules of syntax and punctuation. His poem ‘don’t call me indo-anglian’ is the best example, which unfolds the liberty to use his syntactic structures. His usage of negative words like ‘hotchpotch’, ‘confusion’, ‘nullity’ and ‘abortive’ unveil his disgust as he was put in the category of Indo-Anglian men of letters.

Syed Amanuddin denounces being addressed as an Indo-Anglian. In a staccato speech pattern, he designates the word ‘Indo-Anglian’ as a ‘hotchpotch of culture’, which suggests lack of belongingness to either of cultures. It seems he feels himself illegitimate when somebody assigns him as Indo-Anglian and it ‘aborts’ his identity as an individual. The complete absence of punctuation in the entire poem shows strongly the urgency to vent out his aggression and frustration or of the repression of anger that he has been undergoing for a long time.

Syed Amanuddin, in his poem ‘don’t call me indo-anglian’ vehemently rejected his identity as an Indo-Anglian. He hated ‘hyphens’ that play as bridges between artificial values in the name of race, religion and languages. He denounced all pseudo labels and label makers. He declared that his writings are not be a ‘moon rock specimen’ to be analyzed, labeled and stored for another curious gloomy fellow to reanalyze and reclassify and put them back into the shelves of the book racks again.

He said that they called him Indo-Anglian that he did not understand what it exactly mean. Though he was migrated to America he nostalgically recalled his hometown Mysore and its important landmarks like Cauvery river, Chamundi hills, Deity Chamundi who slain the demon and haunting music of Brindavan fountains. But he did not want to confine himself to his childhood scenes. He had flown across the universe on the wings of his thought in search of the truth by knowing languages and their creeds and kindled the candles of wisdom in the dark caves of prejudice.

Even then they called him Indo-Anglian by the mistaken misfortuned folk classify him with a small group of writers, which made him cloistered and crippled. Though he was able to roam with Kalidasa and Kabir. He could go on a spiritual journey with Dante and meditate with Khayyam on the mathematics of existence. He could sing the songs with anguish of love with Galib or even he could drown with Li Po kissing the moon’s reflection in the river.

In fact, he was not Anglo but he could write in English surely in the language of Shakespeare and Keats. But his name was categorized as Indo-Anglian, which was just confined to a few men of letters. He did not digest this type of segregation.

The poem begins with utter dissatisfaction and disappointment.  The most remarkable thing in this poem that marks the poet’s style is his audacity to challenge the linguistic norms. It seems like he exploits them in a rage against their non-acceptability. It is he does not belong to them then their rules do not belong to him.  Amanuddin presented in his poem ‘don’t call me indo-anglian’ a clear picture of what he feels about his hybridized identity. The sense of loss of belongingness haunts his identity, which finds no satisfaction but ends in victorious chant when Amanuddin finds his identity as “POET”. His diasporic identity vanishes with this declaration which makes him universal and every where, when he says:

i am a POET

i have lived forty centuries under various names

i am now amanuddin

Thus Amanuddin revolt against the conservative ideas of the literary world.

                                                             

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Old SSC Classmates after 40 years

Old SSC Classmates after 40 years 

I AM TRUE TO MY LORD (POEM BY MIRABAI) II Semster B. Com. Basic English

I AM TRUE TO MY LORD (POEM BY MIRABAI)

I am true to my Lord,
O my companions, there is nothing to be ashamed of now
Since I have been seen dancing openly.

In the day I have no hunger
At night I am restless and cannot sleep.
Leaving these troubles behind, I go to the other side;
A hidden knowledge has taken hold of me.

My relations surround me like bees.
But Mira is the servant of her beloved Giridhar,
And she cares nothing that people mock her.

Dream your own dream – Rama Govindarajan (Summary)

Dream your own dream – Rama Govindarajan (Summary)

Rama Govindarjan’s essay “Dream your own dream” is the finest exemplary and inspirational success story for younger generations of students. The students who dream big will certainly achieve. She encourages the students to dream their dreams in order to set their goals in their lives to achieve them. Rama Govindarajan was also as ordinary student as others were. At the end of her school education she was not able to scribble in the autograph books of her friends more than the prosaic words like ‘housewife’, ‘graduate’ or ‘bank employee’ under the query “your ambition is to become a……….”.   She was not even able to understand the term “Research Scientist” for several years.

Rama Govindarajan was greatly influenced by her grandmother, Alamelu and her mother Shakuntala. Alemelu, as a young bride, who fought tooth-and-nail for what she believed was right and never obeying a rule of which she was not convinced. She never compromised though she risked ostracism by her own community.  When, she was socially boycotted she prepared to adjust in a small hut with a Dalit family and ate “meenkozhambu” with them. Shakuntala, Rama Govindarajan’s mother, was practically a single and working woman, who had worked hard to create a home. The home in which poetry and laughter were able to substitute luxury. Rama was always regretting that all her achievements fall far short of her mother’s sacrifice.

It was a great opportunity and superb experience to study B. Tech. in IIT Delhi. She studied her course of B. Tech by heart than by simply memorise. She enjoyed the fun of discussing science matters with her peers. With all these efforts, Rama emerged as a topper of her class with lot of confidence and self-assurance. She developed the attitude of “can do anything”. In spite of all these, she is blessed with a home where completely no gender bias and its manifestations, which unleashed her to have the best education and heavy-duty determination.

Later, Prof. Roddam Narashimha as her Ph. D. advisor in Fluid Mechanics was biggest influence on her scientific career. He taught her to do her research in the right way, which includes a thorough and critical understanding of the subject with extreme care in methods and zero exaggeration in making claims. With all her commitment and determination in her research, she was the first choice among the students for scientific discussions.

Soon after her graduation, she got a job in Mumbai as an engineer. She used to travel in a packed women’s compartment of a local train to her work place that starts very early morning by 6.57. Slowly, she adjusted to her situation and tried to understand the incredible hard work of various women who are hurrying to their jobs in the early morning trains.  Sometimes the stories of those women are too terrible to describe. With all these experiences, she understood that the important ingredient for success is the willingness to accept the hard work.

After two months of her service as an engineer in Mumbai, she realized that she was not satisfied with the present job. She decided to do M.S. in US to launch herself in a planned orbit in an industrial R&D.  As soon as she returned to India from US, she married to a person who is confined to Banglore city. With her conjugal relations, she was forced to stay in Banglore though it was not suitable place for chemical engineer's career. She tried in software industry when it was in its boom. She felt joining in software industry is just like wrong person in a wrong job. Later she went into the defense-related aerospace industry in Bangalore, wherein she wanted to develop the indigenous systems of control and computing skills instead of importing them from the other countries.

In due course of time, she joined as a professor in Jawaharlal Nehru Centre for Advanced Scientific Research, in which she has independence and constant exposure to other researchers, which always unveil crucial research results.  She was fulfilled with the job satisfaction, which gave her an opportunity to focus on research. Now she was recipient of the most covetous Shanti Swarup  Bhatnagar Award for the year 2007 for her outstanding contribution to the nation in the field of research. Thus, Rama Govindarajan released her dreams who dreamt to be a ‘Research Scientist’.   

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Telephone Conversation – Wole Soyinka (Summary)

Telephone Conversation – Wole Soyinka

“Telephone Conversation” by Wole Soyinka, is a poetic satire against the widespread racism, which is still dominant in the modern western society. As the title suggests, the poem depicts a telephone conversation between a West African man and a British landlady who shockingly changes her attitude towards the man soon after he reveals his racial identity.

In the poem “Telephone Conversation”, the mode of telephone conversation is employed by the poet to a broader level where racial bigotry is ridiculed in the context of human intelligence and portraying the poet’s wit and his ingenious sense of humour.

The poem begins on a peaceful note, befitting to the narrator’s satisfaction for having found the right house.

“The price seemed reasonable, location

Indifferent.”

The landlady also emphatically mentioned that she lived ‘off premises’, thereby ensuring that the tenant would enjoy absolute privacy and freedom. The conversation however drifted to an unpleasant turn of events, soon after the man surprisingly decided to make a self-confession to reveal his nationality.

“Madam,” I Warned,

I hate a wasted journey – I am African.”

A sudden unexpected silence followed and the awkward pause in the conversation is strengthened by a caesura, trying to emphasize the impact of the African’s race being revealed to the landlady.  An uneasy atmosphere is created and the word ‘silenced’ reiterates the sudden change in the landlady’s attitude as well as the man’s intuitive sensitivity towards the unfriendliness on the other end of the phone.

“Silence. Silence transmission of

Pressurized good-breeding.”

After considerable period of silence when the landlady spoke again, her words seemed to come from between lipstick coated lips that held between them a long gold-rolled cigarette-holder and impression she gave off was that as if her status in the society was all of a sudden upgraded. Undoubtedly, the poet’s power of imagination enables him to visualize an affluent and sophisticated British landlady belonging to the so-called progressive and urban world on the other side.

Tension rises with the explicit racial discrimination conveyed through the question---

“How Dark?”……

The landlady’s effort in seeking clarification in something quite irrelevant that is, his skin colour, in the course of the conversation is emphasized. She repeated her question, reinforcing the racist overtone in the English society.

The narrator is jolted back into reality from his trance like state and he makes a frantic attempt to ascertain the situation. The revelation comes with the repetition of the question by the landlady with varying emphasis.

“ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT? You mean-like plain or milk chocolate?”

It was soul shattering to the narrator that the landlady could so insensitive to his feelings. Fuming with anger, the man decided to inflict similar humiliation in the racist woman choosing a superior vocabulary and replying in an acutely sarcastic tone.

“West African Sepia – and as afterthought, ‘down in my passport.”

He quickly forces her into submission and exposes the ignorance of the landlady clearly illustrating that beneath the lady’s glossy and lavish exterior, she was just a shallow judgmental racist. Paying no attention to the landlady’s disrespect for him, he took a firm control over the conversation defending the dignity and integrity of his ethic identity form the ruthless onslaught of the landlady. He goes on to describe the various colours one could see on him;

“Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see the rest of me.”

Unabashedly, he goes on to state that the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet are peroxide blonde and that friction by sitting down had turned his bottom – raven black. With a slow but furious realization the lady began to set the receiver down. ‘sensing….’ the man rushed to ask sarcastically:

“Madam”, I pleaded, “Wouldn’t you rather see for yourself?” 

The quasi politeness of the tone of the poet can hardly conceive the ultimate insult inflicted on the land lady and shows how indignant the man was, also ending the poem with a tremendous sense of humour apart from the obvious sarcasm.

“Telephone conversation” is a favourite, both for its excellent use of rich language and the timeless message it conveys, that is to avoid silent resignations to such policies of the racist society and also that intellectual superiority is not determined by racial colour.

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Courtesy: I$C English

Of Travel – Francis Bacon (Summary)

Of Travel – Francis Bacon  

Francis Bacon is one of the most celebrated prose writers of the sixteenth century from where the modern age begins. This age is particularly noted for its religion, philosophy, science and travel. He represented the age in his works about its patriotism, high aims and lofty ideals. His earliest and chief interest in life was the reformation of scientific method of approach. He is considered ‘the brightest, the wisest and the noblest of the humankind and he is known as the father of English Essay and Modern Prose. 

Bacon’s essays on verities of subjects apparently deal with the ethical qualities of men or with the matters pertaining to the governments of states. All his essays are full of practical wisdom of life. His style is aphoristic, formal, impersonal and informative. They are all full of quotable quotes. 

In this essay, “Of Travel” Bacon expresses advantages and benefits of travels. He says that the travel is a part of education for the younger people and it is an experience to the elderly people. One must learn some knowledge of reading as well as writing of language before he/she undertakes a travel. Either some tutor or grave servant must accompany the young persons, while they undertake a travel. These people with their previous experience will help traveler to follow what exercises or discipline the country may demand while travelling in such a country. 

He advised that the traveler must keep a diary with him and record his observations in it. It will be a strange thing in sea-voyages where there is nothing to be seen except the sky and the sea. However, in land-travel, there is so much to be observed and registered in his diary but most of it will be omitted. The enthusiastic traveler must observe and register in his dairy about the courts of princes especially when they give audience to ambassadors, the courts of justice, while they sit and hear the causes, the churches and monasteries, walls and fortifications of cities and towns, havens and harbours, antiquities and ruins, libraries, colleges, disputations, houses and gardens, great cities, warehouses armories, arsenals, magazines, exchanges, exercises of horsemanship, fencing, training of soldiers besides masks, feasts, weddings, funerals, capital executions and whatsoever is memorable in the places where they go. 

He advised the travelers that they must carry a card or a book that can describe the country where he travels. He said that it is not advisable to stay one place for a long time in one city or a town and let him change his lodging from one part of the town to another and be isolate himself from the company of his fellow citizens. Let him see and visit the eminent persons who have great name and fame in those countries of abroad. Moreover, the travelers must be cautious of quarrels, quarrelsome people who will engage him into their quarrels and of contagious diseases like cholera and others. When a traveler returns home, he should not leave those countries behind but maintain correspondence with those of his acquaintances which of those most important. Finally, he advised that the traveler do not change his country manners for those of foreign parts but only prick some flowers of those that has learned abroad into the customs of his own country. Thus, Bacon reveled all the benefits of travel through his essay ‘Of Travel’. 

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